


Piquant

by small_secret



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: But smut is a possibility, Cooking, Creepy Hannibal, Established Relationship, Fluffy as the Hannibal Fandom gets, M/M, Not promising smut, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:57:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/small_secret/pseuds/small_secret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham doesn't always like to cook, but that doesn't mean he can't. Hannibal would like to see Will <i>try</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piquant

**Author's Note:**

> Ridiculous fluff. I can write ridiculous fluff when I'm working on a Stockhome Syndrome 'epic'. You all will be pleased that in later segments, Hannibal ends up being his creepy self?
> 
> And wow, putting the notes in the summary really didn't help my case.

Family doesn't fit Will well, an antique social concept that never granted the Will the basic requirements for one's need for stability or love. The few times he's spoken to his father in his adult years usually turn sour, though Will's walked away with some knowledge of his linage from Louisiana. His father refers himself to as Cajun despite the rather Anglo last name, perhaps to blame on some Scottish-American solider settling down in the area after Reconstruction. Apparently that ancestor got so comfortable, no one in the Graham family had much desire to rise above it until Will came along.  
  
  
Will and his shy nature, Will and his constantly changing environment and stimuli while traveling along with his father up rivers and coasts, never quite getting the Cajun accent his father had. Perhaps that's what pushed him to adapt so 'well' to his neurological disorder akin to the autistic spectrum. He had to. He had no other choice but to _adapt_. Tailing his father along from port to port, struggling in school, never seeing his father for a sizable length of time until the weekends at the dinner table. Weekend dinners had been something Will had done, since his father was always so busy, and once upon a time he did have expectation for his father to grant him attention. So he learned Cajun recipes in hopes for attention.  
  
 _Sometimes_ it worked.  
  
It was through dinner he learned the basic things expected from Graham men: Don't be liberal, the government seeks to screw you over because they're sadistic freaks. Don't be a queer, God only wants peckers in one thing only, no ifs ands or buts. And for fuck's sake – don't cry. Will's failed the first rule, signing up for the FBI and finding a job within it's halls before he was back in the saddle. Will's failed the second rule fairly well, male lovers narrowly out number female in his life (not that he's had _many_ ).The one he doesn't fail he teeters on edge with; however, Will Graham hasn't cried _yet_.  
  
At the least he walked away from his father after graduating high school with honors secured in the knowledge he could cook, and thus make it in life. Though he doesn't do it much. While not entirely alone in his little house in Wolf Trap, people food is _not_ beneficial for dogs and cooking for one is a task that is either done with so many leftovers that Will won't cook again for another few weeks because he's sick of eating the same thing or doesn't cook at all and shop at Trader Joe's for the frozen food.  
  
Usually, it's the later and if someone offers him meals, he's learned never to say anything but thank you. After all, most people don't make _Cajun_ food  and Will knows what a pain it is to make a meal. With Hannibal Lecter, things have progressed between them that Will doesn't have to say 'thank you' all the time. It's gotten so he can show appreciation that seems much more... meaningful than words.  
  
But appreciation only goes so far, notably when for the first time, Will's expectation of the older man's food isn't to par. Not to say it's bad, but it's not the French cuisine that Hannibal enjoys so much. It's ... this mash between kale and mustard greens with a damn sausage. Spicy enough to think of what he knew, mild enough to know that it just didn't make the cut, and he's mortified to be so _critical_.  
  
It was made for him. It's not bad it's simply not... Cajun. And there' something off about the texture of the sausage, it simply didn't feel right nor did it taste right. He's pretty sure Hannibal called the sausage andouille and he's pretty damn sure he's treated it like French food.  
  
Cajun food hasn't been French food for 250 years.  
  
There's a quizzical expression on Hannibal's face as Will picks at his meal. There's no case, so he's not anguished. He's not exhausted, he spent the night in the same bed with Hannibal. He's in a decent place, as decent as he can be in the last few months.  
  
Will quietly stirs his fork against the plate, pushing the greens as if a child refusing to eat them with mythical paternal gaze and all. It's good but it's that prickly feeling he's rarely had before – he really can't pin point it as he takes a bite, slowly chewing and savoring the taste of spices. He meets Hannibal's eyes, the only person whose eyes he can meet with comfortably because _somehow_ Hannibal's managed now to leak his emotions all over Will. It's frightening but comfortable at the same time.

“How about I make you dinner one night?” Will surprises himself with those words but lifts his gaze up to gauge the other man's reaction.  
  
“You?” The tone smiles, the eyes smiles, Hannibal smiles; all of it good humored. “Would I be wrong in suspecting this would it be more of a chore for you than pleasure?”  
  
Will takes a look at the remains of the meal beforehe shrugs, “I think I owe you for a couple of nights. I've kinda lost track, y'know? I've gotta start somewhere.”  
  
There's a quiet sound of a noncommittal answer, it echoes in the dining room and Will goes back to pushing his meal around. Of all the elegance that resides in Hannibal's office and home, Will finds he likes the dining room the least. Too dark, too tight, too modern in the contrast to the old world style that Hannibal seems to enjoy. No one else seems uncomfortable with it but Will, and he's not entirely sure _why_.  
  
“Will?”  
  
Will looks up, though this time Will's eyes go to the corner of of the older man's collar. A more subtle shade of cream. It makes the bronze of Hannibal's skin stand out more.  
  
“You would have to understand that I'd have to accompany you on selecting the ingredients.”  
  
This time Will is almost smiling when he pushes the rest of his meal with his fork, taking a mustard green and stewed tomato this time. “Let me guess... you're picky what you put into your body.” He chews while Hannibal responds.  
  
“The avenue where you select your ingredients - the meats, the seasoning, and the vegetables - can often be telling.” Hannibal's plate, Will has noticed, isn't a much better state than his own. Sympathy pains or Will has had the unfortunate luck in going to Hannibal's on the one night he's made a dud.  
  
Will shakes his head as he swallows his food, nearly grinning. “Doctor, forgive me for analyzing you but... you're a control freak, aren't you?”  
  
“Ah, you've simply have no idea,” Hannibal smiles, the edges oddly sharp, oddly thrilling, “Would you make me dinner?”  
  
There is a nod, a self-deprecating grin. “Even with you hovering at every step, I'll make you dinner.”


End file.
